The tops of trees begin to turn
To red, as though about to burn,
While I, aware the coming fall,
Disdain their dressage autumnal.
In them my own demise I see
Now aged and creaky as a tree,
While my gaunt limbs can barely stretch
And sap is gone that used to letch.
'Tis all part of a season: I
Observe and merely wonder why—
To leaves it is no holocaust
While I am old, and wholy lost.
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